Jane
by Isabelle Lowe
Summary: Jane Bennet is a kind, serene character on the surface, but what emotional turmoil lies beneath? This story explores Jane's true feelings about events, beginning with Lydia's return to Longbourn as a married woman. Jane's misgivings lead her to reject Mr Bingley's proposal. Can observing Elizabeth's happy engagement and marriage to Mr Darcy let her find a happy ending of her own?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello!**

**This story is in the first person and the present tense from Jane's point of view, commencing the evening before Lydia's return to Longbourn as Mrs Wickham. I wanted to explore what thoughts might lie beneath the surface of her character and this is what happened. A warning in advance - Jane does not end up with Bingley. A large part of the story is focused on her coming to terms with what she really wants, mostly by observing Elizabeth and Mr Darcy during their engagement and the early stages of their married life.**

**This is currently up as a taster chapter. I will start posting chapters on a more regular schedule when I have finished posting my current fic in a few months, though I may post more chapters in irregular intervals before then. From my draft, I would guess that the final story will probably be 60,000-100,000 words long.**

**Enjoy!**

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I pull a brush gently through Lizzy's tangled curls, watching in the mirror as her eyes dart around restlessly, searching for some new piece of wit or excitement. Occasionally her lips pull up into a smile and I wonder what she is thinking of in that moment, but her thoughts seem to pass too quickly to share. Still, it is good to see Lizzy smile again. She has not had much cause for that in the past few weeks. None of us have.

Sitting with Lizzy like this makes it an evening like a thousand before, yet it is unlike any I have experienced before, too. Tomorrow our youngest sister will return home, the first of us married. Married at only just sixteen and in the worst possible circumstances. Mrs Lydia Wickham. Will she be different, I wonder? Will the manner of her union have changed her, or will she still be the naive, foolish child I know? Is it too much to hope that when she faces her family, she will be ashamed of what she has done?

Lydia was a beautiful baby. I remember so clearly, her chubby little cheeks, the soft, wispy hair atop her head, her bright, sparkling eyes. She was not my Lizzy though. From an early age she was ill-tempered, spoiled and selfish. She would moan and complain that it hurt if I pulled a brush through her hair as I do Lizzy's every evening. Lizzy never complains, though her unruly curls are always knotted and tangled.

I will never brush Lydia's hair out again. Never hear those familiar complaints which years ago caused Lizzy to throw down the brush in defeat and tell her to just do it herself. She is a married woman now. Perhaps her husband will brush out her hair. From what I know of Mr Wickham, though, it seems unlikely. Most nights, I think, when the initial glow of newlyweds has worn away, Lydia will be left alone to brush her hair, wondering where her husband is as she does so. Maybe he will be brushing the hair of another woman and Lydia will finally realise how foolish she has been.

Maybe.

One day, perhaps, I will be ready to settle for a marriage like that. One without love. Hopefully to a man of better morals than Mr Wickham, of course. It cannot be so bad, when enough is known of your partner's character to be sure at least that they mean no harm. After all, Charlotte has done it and by all accounts is quite content with her lot. She has the assurance of a stable income, her own home to be mistress of and her husband's inheritance of Longbourn in the future. But she confesses herself that she is not romantic, and I must confess myself that I am. I long for the sweetness of love to accompany my marriage. Love that I thought I had found with – no matter, clearly I was mistaken.

With Mr Bingley it had seemed enough that I read only when it gives me pleasure to, sing little and somewhat ill and speak French rather poorly. It had not seemed to matter that I have none of Lizzy's intelligence, or Mary's commitment, or even Kitty and Lydia's lively ways. But it had mattered. It will _always_ matter. He left and I came crashing back down to earth. To a world where for all my mother's protestations of my great beauty, I am nothing but an impoverished and unremarkable gentlewoman of little to no skill who is very nearly on the shelf.

"Jane?" Lizzy's voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I realise that I have ceased my brushing. "It may never happen." She tells my reflection, whose face I see is marred by a dark frown.

"Oh Lizzy, I'm afraid it already has." I reply, unable to keep the tears from my eyes.

"Come now, dearest. Lydia will spill no tears for us. Do not spill them for her." Lizzy tells me, gently wiping the tears from my face. She has mistakenly assumed that I am crying for our sister. I cannot bear to tell her that these are selfish tears, mourning only for myself. Sometimes I think her belief in my goodness is all that keeps me from snapping like a twig.

Lizzy, oblivious to all of this, takes the brush from my shaking fingers and pries the escaped tendrils of her dark hair from between the bristles.

"It is a wonder I have any hair left on my head." She says in mock astonishment, showing me the matt of strands which have been pulled out tonight. It is a joke she tells often, and the familiarity eases me. In the mirror I see my reflection offer her a watery smile. Gently, she begins to pull the pins from my hair, letting my straight, golden locks hang loose.

My hair is like spun gold, Mama says. She is so proud of that hair. Once, her hair had looked the same. Gold, she regularly tells us, is the most beautiful of colours. I, she regularly tells us, am the most beautiful of daughters. The only hope for us is that my beauty will allow me to marry well. My golden hair is the weight of lead on my shoulders. Would Mama be angry if she knew I long for nothing more than warm brown curls like Lizzy's?

Lizzy sings as she brushes my hair. Her voice is sweet and pleasing. Somehow, it makes me miss her even though she is right there. Maybe it is because I know we will one day be separated and brush each other's hair no more. Brushing my hair is short work and now Lizzy's nimble fingers weave it into a braid, crossing strands over and under each other like she has been doing it her whole life. She almost has.

"There. I declare you quite perfect." She pronounces, giving the long golden rope she has created a playful tug.

"Thank you, Lizzy." I tell her, with a smile that does not quite reach my eyes. Lizzy sighs.

"It will not be so very bad." She says although I am not sure if she is trying to reassure me or herself. "They are not staying for long. The first day will be the hardest to get through, but once the excitement of their arrival has passed we will hardly know they are here."

"Yes." I reply with a confidence I do not feel, moving to begin Lizzy's braid. Wrestling her stubborn curls calms me. "I am sure that they will wish to spend most of their time with one another. They are newly married, after all. If we continue about our normal daily tasks, then we shall really only have to face them for meals."

"Yes. That is how it will be." She says. I can tell that she does not think Lydia will have been changed by her experiences. I am not sure if she is more afraid of being wrong or being right. To be wrong would mean that our sister is condemned to a lifetime of misery, but it would spare us the pain that Lydia will undoubtedly cause if she is her old self and shows no remorse.

I finish Lizzy's braid in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I watch our reflections in the mirror again. Neither one of us is smiling now. Lizzy's eyes are still and empty. She is watching the flickering flame of the candle that sits on the dresser, but I get the sense that she sees something else entirely.

Her vacant expression recalls to me a memory of our childhood, when I was ten and Lizzy was only just eight. She had been gazing into a flame then, too. I had been wondering what on earth she could be thinking of, when, with determined intent, she placed a small hand in the flame.

"Lizzy! Stop that!" I cried, pulling her back. "Let me see your hand. Is it burnt? You are old enough to know not to do such a silly thing!"

"But why, Jane? Why does it burn?" She had asked, completely unperturbed by my scolding, as though she could not accept that it did without understanding how. I just shook my head and told her not to do such a stupid thing again, thinking that would be that.

The next day she came to me with a thick journal from our father's library and told me proudly that she now understood why. I realised then the fundamental difference between us, which had nothing to do with our looks, no matter what our mother might think. Lizzy had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. I did not. For a time after this, I wondered what caused people to be different from one another, but I was not curious enough to attempt to find out. I suppose I never really was one for asking why.

We had still shared this room back then. It was not until I was thirteen when my cycles came and Mama declared I was becoming a woman that she insisted Lizzy move to a room of her own. For weeks I struggled to sleep after that, missing the comfort of my sister's warmth and soft breathing beside me. Sometimes I still miss it, even though ten years have passed since then.

Without Lizzy's influence, this room is less alive. It is not just that it is colder, or quieter. It is as though her possessions are infused with her essence, her zest for life, and without them mine seem dead and empty. Perhaps it is the rigid order of things that makes it seem so. I have always been a tidy person. My possessions are regimented, stored in perfect order and tucked neatly away.

The only possessions which remain out are the silver brush set that Lizzy and I use every night. When she leaves I will line them up meticulously, unable to bear closing my eyes knowing that something is out of place. In the morning light when I wake the silver will reflect the icy blue of the drapes and the bed hangings. I will look at it. I will feel cold and empty.

Lizzy's room is the polar opposite. Things cover every surface: letters, trinkets, sheet music and most of all books. She stacks books everywhere, in some sort of system which I do not understand. Some are her favourites, others are new and have not been read yet, more still are waiting to be returned to father's library or to a friend who they have been borrowed from.

Inevitably her clothes seem to end up scattered in the mix, or else piled in the corner as though the effort of putting them away is just too much. That is to say nothing of her ever-growing leaf collection, specimens of which regularly escape and find their way into the strangest of places. Lizzy calls it organised chaos. Sometimes I urge her to tidy up, but my attempts are half-hearted. The truth is that I would not change it for the world.

"Jane? Jane!" Lizzy is calling my name again. Seeing that she has got my attention, she smiles gently. "You are rather preoccupied tonight."

"I'm sorry, Lizzy. I was just thinking."

"Ah. A very dangerous past time. You had better be careful doing that." She teases. Her words have the desired effect as I cannot help but laugh.

"I will be sure to limit the activity as much as I am able." I assure her.

"Very well. I will leave you to that, then." Lizzy says. The thought of her leaving brings the darkness back again. I almost beg her to stay. Almost.

"Yes. Goodnight, sister." I settle for instead, smiling in what I hope is a convincing manner.

"Goodnight." Lizzy smiles and kisses my cheek. I watch as she leaves the room and listen as she calls goodnight to Kitty and Mary. How cold the room feels now.

Compulsively, I return Lizzy's chair to the corner by the window and tuck my own beneath the dresser, lining up the silver brush set. I move my candle across to my bedside and kneel on the floor to say my nightly prayers. Tonight I beg God to forgive my selfish thoughts, then I beg him to protect Lydia and spare her immortal soul. I do not know if he is listening, but it is worth trying.

Prayers done, I crawl between the sheets and clutch the covers to my chest. For a while, I leave the candle burning and watch as the shadows dance around the edge of its glow. It is very similar to a person really, a lonely, flickering light with darkness around the edges trying to creep in. It is very similar to me.

Eventually, I lean over to blow the candle out. I try not to think that life, too, can be snuffed out so quickly and thoughtlessly.

I try.

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©**Isabelle Lowe, 2019**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello!**

**Thank you for the amazing response to chapter one, there were some really lovely reviews and I hope that you all continue to like this story. In this chapter, Lydia returns to Longbourn and Jane struggles to cope.**

**Enjoy!**

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When I wake I am cold. I pull the sheets around me and curl onto my side, trying to prepare for the day to come. Lydia's return to Longbourn is, I believe, the greatest test I have ever faced. For her foolishness, for putting everything I hold dear in jeopardy, I have grown to despise my youngest sister. She is merely a child and it is unfair to blame her for her naivety, but I seem to no longer have control over my own feelings.

That is my great secret. I am so full of anger at everything and everyone. No, not quite everyone. I am not angry at Lizzy, but sometimes I think she is the only person in the world who I can trust and respect. Everyone else is too… fallible. Full of flaws that infuriate me beyond belief. I offer them kindness for every wrong they commit, try to smother their flaws with goodwill, but to no avail.

I suppose that Lizzy is fallible and flawed in her own way, but here I am being selfish again. I know that she will never fail me.

In despising Lydia, I have also learnt to despise my father, for it was his responsibility to provide for her and to teach her to be better than she was, but he would not give himself the trouble. Equally, I have grown to despise my mother for encouraging Lydia's wildness, believing that fifteen was old enough to be out in society and teaching her youngest child that marriage by any means should be the only aim irrespective of whether it will bring happiness.

Even more, I despise her for failing to realise that Lydia's marriage cannot take away the shame in what she has done. That it cannot take away the pain it has caused us, or the way people in the street who we have known since we were children looked at us. That if Wickham had not been paid an incomprehensible sum to shackle himself to my foolish sister, we would all have been ruined. Wickham, too, I despise, but less. He is just an evil man who means nothing to me. He has not used my family as a personal insult to me.

"Jane, are you awake?" Lizzy's quiet call cuts through my thoughts. I sit up and turn to look at her. She is dressed and from the flush of her cheeks I can tell that she has already taken her morning walk.

"Yes. I am awake." I tell her, trying to banish my earlier musings and offer her a smile. Hearing my reply, she crosses the room and draws the curtains, letting in the morning light. I have to blink several times for my eyes to adjust.

"Did you sleep well?" She asks, sitting on the end of my bed.

"Tolerably." I respond, knowing that the circles beneath my eyes will contradict any statement more positive than this. I pass a hand across my face and rub the sleep from my eyes. "How was your walk?"

"Tolerable." She replies with a laugh. Suddenly her face sobers and she seems far away. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion and she appears shocked at herself. As quickly as it has come the expression passes again and her smile returns, though she looks slightly dazed as though she has just discovered something.

"What are you thinking of?" I ask.

"Nothing of consequence." Her smile has turned wistful. "Just of things that could never be. Come, if you do not dress soon you will miss breakfast." This answer only leaves me with more questions, but she clearly does not want to talk about it so I do not ask again. If it is important then she will tell me in time.

Lizzy helps me to ready myself for the day, lacing my corset and buttoning my overdress. With skilled ease she pins my hair into a simple style. Mama often complains that we should call for our maid to assist us, but she is stretched so thin across the five… four of us that it seems ridiculous to call on her on an ordinary morning.

An ordinary morning. That is all this is.

When Lizzy has decided I am presentable, we descend the stairs together and enter the breakfast parlour. Papa is sat at the head of the table, a newspaper in his hands, ignoring whatever Mama is saying. Mary has sheet music in front of her and is studying the notes as she chews on dried fruit. Kitty's full attention is on her meal, though she looks up when we enter.

"Good morning, Jane, Lizzy, did you hear that one of Mrs Long's nieces is engaged? I just had it from Maria Lucas." She says by way of greeting, gesturing to a note beside her which is scrawled in Maria's hand. I smile fondly, envying my sister's innocence that this little piece of gossip is the most important thing in her mind on such a morning. It has always been a subject of humour for me that the younger girls send notes over breakfast when they will likely meet face to face not half an hour later, so eager to share their news with one another that they cannot wait. Lydia… Lydia used to do that too.

"No, I had not heard." I reply, knowing that Lizzy will not. "Do we know the gentleman?"

"Lord, no. I think he is from Bath or Brighton or somewhere like that."

"Bristol, Berkhamsted, Bournemouth…" Lizzy lists with feigned nonchalance.

"Lizzy!" Kitty complains though she is failing to hide her smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we were just naming places beginning with B." My sister holds up her hands in a show of innocence, taking a seat beside Kitty. I move to sit opposite her, beside Mary, wishing that I could also possess whatever it is that allows them to joke on a day like this. That allows them to mention Brighton without screaming and crying and breaking down.

I do not.

I feel sick.

"Jane, dear, do come and sit by me." Mama calls, giving me little choice but to comply.

"Of course, Mama." I reply sweetly, schooling my face into a smile and moving away from Mary again. "Are you well this morning?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course I am well! Do you not remember that our dearest Lydia is returning home today?" I begin to reply in the affirmative, but Mama continues to speak before I can get a word out. "What joy, to finally have a daughter married! I am sure our dearest Lydia will soon be with child and then what joy that will bring as well."

"Hopefully not too soon." Lizzy murmurs. Silently I agree with her. We do not know for sure whether they anticipated their vows, but it seems probable that they did considering the amount of time they spent alone. The last thing we need is an early pregnancy to create more scandal around this union.

Father chuckles, oblivious as always to the fact that this is hardly an appropriate response. Or perhaps he is just so detached from reality that his failure as a father really is amusing to him. His reaction also draws Mama's attention to Lizzy.

"Hold your tongue, girl!" She snaps, though I doubt she actually heard what Lizzy said. In our mother's book, any word against her darling Lydia is worthy of scolding. I think it is her way of repressing what happened. If she can pretend that her youngest daughter is a paragon of virtue then it must be true.

"Well now Lizzy, you must look at this article here…" Our father begins loudly, holding out his newspaper to her as though if he ignores Mama for long enough she will cease to exist.

"Jane, do take some food, you are looking rather thin of late." Mama says to me. From the corner of my eye, I see Lizzy frown. It has not escaped her notice that my corset pulls tighter than usual lately, or that my dresses are hanging a little loose.

"Yes, Mama." I reply, obediently reaching for a pastry. In truth, I have no appetite. It is laughable that my weight should be any cause for concern anyway. I am not like Lizzy, whose walking has always made her slim. It is not as though I am about to waste away. That is not why Mama is concerned, though. As she regularly tells us, there is no beauty in being too thin. It is simply not fashionable.

Father quickly withdraws to his library when we have finished breaking our fast, escaping from our company. I gaze after him in longing and I know Lizzy does too. If only we had such an escape. Instead, we dutifully follow our mother to the front parlour where we will sit for most of the morning. Lizzy might practice some pieces on the pianoforte, providing a pleasant respite, but it is more likely that Mary will establish herself at the instrument and drive us half mad reciting dull scales.

On any other morning, we might be allowed to search out other endeavours around the house, perhaps cutting flowers, hanging herbs to dry or venturing out with baskets for the tenant families, but we do not know what time Lydia will arrive so Mama insists that we all await her in the parlour. Maria Lucas is soon to call, giving us some entertainment with the gossip from Meryton, but in no time at all she is gone again and we are left alone. There are no other callers this morning. Needlework it is, then. A dull, repetitive activity that provides little respite from my wandering thoughts.

Lydia… I should probably think of her as Mrs Wickham from now on. That name is cold and unfamiliar. It is not my sister. It is not tied to hundreds of beautiful, bittersweet memories of an innocent child. It does not hurt.

Loud notes on the pianoforte shock me out of my thoughts. I look over and see that Mary has sat down to play. I am about to return to my stitches when I notice something strange about her countenance. A steely sort of determination that brings out a resemblance to Lizzy which I have never observed before.

Gently, Mary's fingers begin to glide across the keys. The piece is simple and sweet, but deeply mournful too. It is unlike anything she would usually play. She has chosen it specifically for this morning. At moments, there is a light, playful tone to it which embodies Lydia in a way words never could. The sadness welling underneath embodies the mistake Lydia has made in a way words never could. The foolish little lamb going willingly into the lion's den.

When the music finishes, silence is heavy in the room. None of us wishes to disturb it, as though the lingering melody is a lifeline to cling to. Although I can see that she does not understand what her daughters are thinking, even Mama does not dare to venture some silly comment now.

"That was beautiful, Mary." Lizzy says eventually. They share a look, a new understanding passing between them. Mary bows her head in gratitude at the praise, but for once has no sermon to quote.

A warm calmness begins to grow within me and for the first time today I feel that I can offer a true smile. I am not angry at Mary. I now have a new respect for her. Her sorrow runs as deep as mine. She hides her suffering under her sermonising, as I hide mine behind pretty nothings. Perhaps we are more alike than anyone realises.

The morning fades slowly into afternoon as we wait in anticipation or dread for Lydia's arrival. My fingers stitch a pattern onto a handkerchief but I pay them no heed.

"Perhaps we should take a basket down to Mrs Brown, Lizzy. You know how difficult it has been for her with not one but three new babes." I suggest when I feel that I can bear to sit still no longer. If I am restless then it must only be a fraction of what Lizzy is feeling.

"Oh, no, no, girls! That simply will not do." Mama cuts in before my sister can answer. "What would happen if Lydia were to arrive when you were out? I would have to tell our dearest child that you were too busy with some tenant woman to welcome her return!"

"I doubt Lydia would be particularly put out, Mama. She will have plenty of time to greet us later." Lizzy points out.

"No, Lizzy, you will do as you are told!" Mama responds forcefully, glaring at my sister in that way which always dares her to argue back.

"How incredible for Mrs Brown. Imagine the shock, to have three healthy babes all at once, and when she is almost thirty-six as well. They are such beautiful little boys, I hear that their older sisters quite dote upon them. She must be very pleased to finally have sons who can help about the farm when they grow up." Kitty redirects the conversation with a perfect expression of innocence. Beneath, however, I detect a note of steely determination. It is no accident that she has brought up the joy of sons. I think that she is punishing our mother for her harsh words and stupidity by reminding her of her greatest failure: the failure to have a son.

Perhaps I am not angry at Kitty either. This is not her fault. Not really.

Though we are still not allowed to leave the room, Mama lets me ring for tea and cakes to give us all some respite from our long wait. This is a small victory, I suppose. She has not insisted that we wait for Lydia.

Perhaps hearing the servants pass, Papa enters the room soon after and surveys us all. He smiles the smile that I know means he is laughing at us in his head. No one smiles back. Not even Lizzy.

He wanders the room, silently observing us in our tasks. Suddenly the air is harder to breathe. The silence is choking me. I can feel him looking over my shoulder, watching my needle pull in and out. Accidently- or is it really an accident? I can't quite tell – the needle plunges into my finger. Red blood blossoms across the white fabric.

"A shame. It was such pretty work." He says after we both watch it spread for a minute. I smile a dreadful, empty smile to match his.

"No matter, Papa. I shall begin again. I had not been at it long anyway." I tell him. He looks bemused and pats my shoulder.

"Oh well. Be more careful in future." He mumbles, moving away. Lizzy watches with a frown as I wipe the blood from my finger. She bites down hard on her lip to prevent herself from speaking.

"Well now, Lizzy." Our father comes to stand by her and drops a book on the table where she works. "Give this a read, why don't you." He ruffles her hair fondly, pretending not to notice that it irritates her. Or maybe he is not pretending. Maybe he really does not even notice her.

"Thank you, Papa." Lizzy responds after a pause. She keeps her eyes on her needlework and does not reach for the book, though I know that she wishes for nothing more than a distraction from her dull task. She will not give him the satisfaction.

Father does notice this and his lips quirk up in amusement. For a moment I think he will keep watching her to see how long it takes for her resolve to crack, but then he moves away and soon after leaves the room. It is not five minutes before the book is in Lizzy's hands.

"Carriage! There is a carriage coming up the driveway!" Kitty cries from where she sits gazing out of the window almost an hour later. Mama springs to her feet and begins to bustle around ordering us to tidy away our things. Her dearest child is returned.

"Mr Bennet! Mr Bennet! Oh, where is that man? Hill! Hill! Fetch Mr Bennet at once. Lydia is almost here!" She cries, waving her arms expressively. This time when our father enters the room there is no smile on his face. Now, at least, he is feeling the full force of his failure.

Too soon, we hear the carriage pull up and the occupants dismount. Lydia's voice is loud in the hallway. My breath catches. Lizzy squeezes my hand, for her comfort or mine I do not know. Her palm is sweaty but cold.

From the second Lydia bursts into the room I know that not a single thing has changed for her. She races to our mother, eager to show off her ring and her new bonnet. And her new husband. Mama is insensible with delight. They turn to Papa and he is insensible too, though not with delight. With rage that he barely conceals. That is something, I suppose. That would make me pity him if I did not know how he has brought this upon himself.

Upon all of us.

Lydia comes to all of us expecting our congratulations and praise. We give it. What choice do we have? She seems oblivious to how insincere we all sound. Somehow she does not feel the waves of disgust rolling off Lizzy, or censure from Mary, or betrayal which has been stabbing Kitty's heart since her closest sister made such a foolish, thoughtless mistake.

Wickham comes close to us when Lydia has returned to Mama and he begins to speak to Lizzy. He is a fool if he thinks he will get sympathy from her now. Does he really believe us oblivious to what he has done? As there is nothing I can do to make him go away, I simply remain there, hoping that Lizzy feels my silent support. I can feel her pain, but she never lets her voice waver.

It is Lydia who finally goes too far. Entirely unprompted, she begins to speak of her marriage as though she has nothing to be ashamed of. I do not think she even realises that she has done anything wrong. With an excuse that sounds weak even to my own ears, I flee the room. I barely make it up the stairs before I break down. Lizzy, who has followed me, holds me as I sob. Sometime later I realised that she is crying too.

"How can she… how can she hold her head up in this house after what she did? How can she look any of us in the eye? How can it be that she has learnt nothing?" I gasp through my tears, clinging to my sister.

"It is for the best, Jane." Lizzy tells me, her voice dull as she strokes my hair. "She does not know what a terrible, horrible mistake she has made. That will protect her, at least for a time. Long may her ignorance last."

"Yes. Yes, you are right." I say, wiping away my tears and attempting to compose myself. "I hope she never has cause to see the truth."

Supper is a tense affair. Lizzy and I are almost hollow, drained from our earlier emotional outpouring. Mary, who has had no such opportunity to release her anger, manages to quote scripture every time she is brought into the conversation, her disapproval of Mr and Mrs Wickham radiating off her. Kitty is painfully uncertain, torn between wanting to behave as she always has with Lydia and knowing that what her closest sister did was unforgivable.

Mama is entirely oblivious to all of this. She sees only that her favourite child has returned home, victorious in the quest to capture a husband. She has already forgotten that there was ever a scandal, that her new son in law is the worst sort of man and that the Bennet name may perhaps be forever sullied. She does not pause to consider that Lydia's future is hardly secure married to such a man.

Papa is the worst, because of all of us he is the one who should have been changed by this. With the open proof before him of how he has failed his family, he should be making an effort to correct it. But I can see it in his face. This is just amusement to him, as it always has been.

Papa takes Wickham aside after dinner and without her husband or father in the room, somehow Lydia becomes even more boisterous. Though it is terrible, I cannot help sharing a relieved glance with Lizzy when we hear that they can only remain at Longbourn for ten days. Already, I anticipate the day of their departure. How cruel is that? I look forward to seeing my own sister leave.

But Lydia is Lydia still and I can no longer bear it. She laughs as she offers to find husbands for us all and it is all I can do to hold back my tears as Lizzy collects herself enough to offer some sort of reply. I retire early. I cannot bear to be in the drawing room a moment longer.

Later, I lie in bed attempting to sleep, but I can hear terrible sounds echoing down the hall from the room Lydia and Wickham occupy. Though I do not know what exactly the marriage bed entails, Lydia seems to take great delight in it. She cannot be oblivious to the sounds she is making. She wants us to hear.

When I can no longer take it, I rise and pad down the hall to Lizzy's room. It is further away from the guest room and the sounds are not quite so loud, though I have no doubt that Lizzy is just as aware of them as I am.

Lizzy is sat upright in bed when I enter, a book open on her lap. She has obviously decided that sleep will allude her as long as the noises continue.

"Oh, Jane," She says when I enter, "you look exhausted. Here, lie down." She pulls back the covers for me and I slip into bed beside her. Neither of us mentions the sounds.

Picking up her book again, Lizzy begins to read it out loud. Her voice distracts me and I soon find my eyes growing heavy. I do not know how long she continues to read, or whether the noises have stopped, but finally I drift off to sleep.

The last thought in my head is the one that I never reached this morning when Lizzy came to wake me. It is cold and hard and it chills me to the very core. Maybe I do not despise all these people in my life for their petty little flaws. Maybe I am the one who is flawed and fallible. Maybe the only one I really despise is me.

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©**Isabelle Lowe, 2019**


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